Kids say the darndest things. At least, thats what they say kids say. Mine just started talking coherently a little while ago, but for every word that is incoherent, there’s one that’s clear as day.
Ive been around kids long enough to know they repeat everything they hear. Despite my sometimes sailor inspired vocabulary, im usually really good with what I say around them.
This post is NOT about how my daughter embarassed me in public because she spewed off a few choice words appropriate only for a dissertation written by the Hound from Game of Thrones.
Instead, the offending word is one that many parents yearn for their child to say: Daddy.
On one of our regular grocery trips to the local Kroger, in which I was quite proud of myself for managing to get both children fed, dressed, and out of the house incident free by myself, my daughter sat in the cart while I carried my son in a black Boba wrap.
One by one we added things to the cart, crossing off items from our list as we toured the aisles. When we arrived at the cleaning section, the aisle was full of other shoppers. I managed to finagle the cart to the area I needed.
I grabbed the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser from the shelf and handed it to Rory to throw in the basket. Instead, in this aisle full of people, she looked at the image of a happy, smiling guy with a shiny bald head and as clear as day she yelled: “that’s my Daddy”.
Knowing my husband, I actually thought the connection was hysterical. Shes often found resemblence to her father in other famous faces. She swears he’s Howie Mandel, and when we spent last summer in Pennsylvania, she assumed Cuban American music artist Pitbull was her dad and he was just away on tour.
Once I noticed the looks on other shoppers faces I started to assess the situation from an outside perspective. This tired, weary mother with two tiny children, shopping alone on a weekday morning, so pathetic that the poor child doesnt even know who her father is. She thinks its Mr. Clean for crying out loud. We must help her. Send her to Maury.
I laughed, told Rory that was not her daddy, which only made her yell “its Daddy!” Even louder and clearer, and threw the box in the cart. Finally I caved and accepted that Mr. Clean was my childs father. “Yes Roar, thats daddy. Lets go pick out some ice cream.”
As the other patrons looked at me with pitying eyes, I finally understood why my daughter can be such a clean freak. Its in her genes.